There was a time when I thought we were over for good, but now I know.

I am still in love with the idea of New York City.

Now, New York City was not in love with me.  It shooed me away, from borough to borough… to borough… to borough; it left me crying on high-rise subway platforms alone in the wrong boroughs entirely during thunderstorms at 4 a.m.; it charged me $22 for movies starring Shia LaBeouf; it puked on me on the Staten Island Ferry (in this case ‘it’ being ‘a drunk 21-year-old stranger).

But it gave me beautiful bouquets of mild sea-breezes and a pretty autumn.

It showered me in pistachio macarons and sweet, cold azuki mochi, and introduced me to its great friend of ultra-sour frozen yogurt from Pinkberry, Yoberry, and Red Mango.  We spent many a teatime glugging Bubble Tea from Le Petit Belge while people-watching in the Union Square greenmarket.

New York City helped me to feel like the sophisticate artiste I had wanted to be on the days we spent trolling, teary-eyed, through The Strand to find cheap books with that spicy printed paper smell, or wandering lost through the Village to find midnight premieres of British indie movies or hole-in-the-wall concert venues for tiny local bands that have only eight fans.

There were the bittersweet moments of intimidation in SoHo, the days too cloudy to see Lady Liberty from the Ferry, and the frustration of always, always having my grilled cheese forgotten on the griddle at Think Coffee (which is otherwise my second-favorite coffee shop in the world).

When I was younger, New York City could do no wrong.  As with most relationships, as I got older and actually experienced it, I became jaded and the fall from grace of my idol city left me too blind to remember why I wanted to be involved with it at all.

Time has passed enough now that I can recall the immense good with the bad (Bedbugs!  Squatting in Boerum Hill!  A four-hour commute to a six-hour shift at work!  Falling in puddles outside Whitehall Terminal!).

From my journals in New Y0rk:

23 December

I saw the Rockefeller Center tree, and watched the skaters circle round and round the golden-lit rink.

I was ignored in Gucci (again) but didn’t have to suffer through being called fat by Swedish Prada models in Bergdorf’s (although yesterday, Lily Cole called me ‘quite cool’ and asked where was ‘the queue to the wash-up’).

FAO Schwartz’ giant stuffed animals were everything I ever hoped they would be.  There was a duo of siblings in matching Fair Isles Christmas sweaters jumping around on the giant piano, and they were precious.

AT FAO SCHWARTZ YOU CAN HAVE MADE YOUR OWN CUSTOM MUPPET.  If I am ever rich, I will have my own fleet of Muppets.  That is, now that I know it is possible, the epitome of all my life’s dreams.  Fleet of custom Muppets.

I had dessert at the Plaza.  It was so beautiful it was almost scary, and there is no portrait of Eloise on the wall anymore, just a case of 2004-rerelease Eloise memorabilia for sale in the side lobby.  The waitstaff all wear tuxedos with tails and have cufflinks.  Dessert was served with literal silver spoons, despite the fact that I clearly was not born with one in my mouth.  The chocolate pot de creme with chantilly cream and chocolate streusel was divine, and it was free, because a middle-aged Armenian man who was too mild-mannered to Richard-Gere-in-Pretty-Woman himself out more than to order us French fries surreptitiously, which he sent back when we didn’t want them, paid for it.

I used the strategy I learned for such occasions on Long Island: ”Thank you,” and leave immediately.

The lights on the ironwork were almost enough to make me wish I were rich enough or self-deprecating enough to stay at the Plaza for Christmas, though.

And if I did, I would completely pour a pitcher of water down the mail chute.

19 March

Sitting on the downtown R, listening to “American Pie” by Don McLean and clutching my fangirl copy of GQ with sweaty palms.

Watching the girl with an afro and huge silver plate earrings drink red wine from a balloon goblet as she watches the band on a backdrop of Persian rugs.

The yell of the little girl in pink pants on the Staten Island Ferry as she points out the window: ”Grandpa!  Look!  It’s a mermaid!  A real mermaid!”

Things aren’t so bad.